Halving one’s heart | turning it over like a stone | watching the golden insects scatter | and the worms | tossed into the blaze | of the sun | look for the earth and their true element again || An envelope | falls out of a notebook | and the words | wriggle to sense and a glance, then | bury the lightning with the whole storm || In the immense | flash of the event | you lie alone | in what is left of heaven | calm | with pieces of strangers | lifted in what you called your hands

In a fork in the moment | we paused and a shadow went over the sun || Rome was built in that day || Stragglers | from the picnic | in a 19th | century novel | fell to talking of horses, then land, and so | to love || It will soon rain, and we | must hurry to the next thing, hoping it will form | a shelter of some kind | flexible as an unread book | passing like a lost affair | enduring like a stone